


The Beauty of a Name

by BloodyBaking



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Ableism, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Language, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-17 06:40:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11270079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodyBaking/pseuds/BloodyBaking
Summary: Gotham's Prince believes he can help the city's worst plague, if he could only pin a name to him.Jerome Valeska died when Bruce was 20-years-old, it was shaking to the newly emerged Batman, to have one of the many nightmares finally taken from his life.As years pass and more criminals work their way up the ropes, Bruce Wayne believes finding a story, a record, even just a name for the Clown Prince of Crime will help with his treatment, yet the reaction he receives isn't one he hoped for.Gotham AU-Canon Divergence, taking place approximately after the season 3 finale. Will eventually be BatJokes, will take some time to get there.





	The Beauty of a Name

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic up on AO3, do feel free to tell me any errors you encounter, I am my own Beta for the time being.

"Jackson." The Bat called after a purple motorcycle, gaining only furrowed green eyebrows and a dark look in return. 

"James." He tried a week later, with no response this time around. Just a grin and a kiss blown his way. 

"Johnathan." This attempt earned a boisterous laugh, masking the confusion in his acidic eyes. 

The idea of naming the Clown Prince of Crime came by Bruce one cool afternoon, in his sleep deprived state of mind. Alfred had been leaving the dark bedroom, having brought some breakfast–lunch–in. As he walked out, Bruce wondered silently what could have happened to bring this man so deep into the gutter. He often wondered. Many of the Rogues in Gotham had some similarly scarring backgrounds, he had assumed the Joker would be the same. Despite having the fingerprints and multiple DNA samples from the Clown, nobody had yet confirmed his identity. Possibly something could bring forward the memories, help the staff at Arkham handle his treatment, give some base to the insanity that embodies who the Joker is. 

A name could work. A name leads to information. Medical records, family lines, past crimes, _something_ to get the ball rolling. Bruce started with J names: Jeffery, Jacob, Joseph, Jared. Jason and James were difficult to say, he didn't want to share those names, but luckily the Joker had no reaction to either. 

Luckily wouldn't be quite the right word, it had meant Bruce was back at step one. There were so many more names he could attempt, and soon it turned to other names, like Oliver or Michael, common names for the U.S. The list was too long, too extensive for this kind of experiment. 

It happens on a day when Batman is taking him back to Arkham, the list of names freshly memorized. The Joker had been going on about having alone time, grinning while leaning as close as he can to the Bat, the cuffs attached to the passenger door proving it difficult. Bruce had been putting the name game off, but he starts with a calm voice. 

"Do you remember anything from before you were like this?" He doesn't take his eyes off the road. 

"Like what? Dazzlingly handsome?" The darkness surrounding his eyes is creased further with his laughter, dying down moments later, "I'm afraid not Batsy, because this has always been me, no tragic backstory, no missed parents, no lost love. Unless we're counting you." The sentence was finished with a breathy giggle and a smile stretched far too wide. 

"Christopher?" 

"Don't know him."

"David." Bruce's voice was stern, steady.

"Are we naming our kids?" Snickering, Joker pressed his back into the seat, his feet resting on the dashboard. The Bat clenched his jaw. As they sped past a theater in the dead of night, the bright lights now shut off, Bruce was reminded of a different time. When carnivals still stopped frequently in Gotham, when the people still felt safe enough to attend such events. 

"Jerome." There was a pause, and Bruce spared a glance to the man in his passenger seat. Dark green eyes stared back at him, furrowed brows painting an expression of discomfort. 

"Don't use that one." Any trace of a grin had fallen away, followed by the Joker turning to look out the tinted window. "It's dreadfully dull."

"Do you recognize the name?" He didn't want it to be true, he didn't want those memories of magic tricks and carnival rides to resurface. The angered kick at the windshield was proof enough, and it was followed up with another, then another. Bruce put on the self driving mechanism before turning to grab at Joker's calves, forcing his feet back down to the floor. Surprisingly enough, he complied, letting his legs relax as he slumped into the seat.

"I don't like that name one bit, I liked Cristopher better, let's use that one. Christopher Batsy-Jokes, it's fitting." Bruce narrowed his eyes under his cowl, studying the clown's expression under all the grease paint. The scars on his left arm throbbed, those six small holes feeling as if they've opened again. Turning back to the wheel, Bruce took it and fell silent. He remained this way until they're at Arkham, until he saw Jerome locked back in his own padded cell. 

It's when he gets home that he speaks again, to Alfred specifically. Bruce is lying on his back in the study, the red cushions of the couch squishing uncomfortably under his weight. 

"Do you remember Valeska?" Alfred turned to Bruce as he asked, silver tray in hand, carrying a full plate of crackers and sliced fruit. 

"Jerome Valeska? Yes, I do." His voice is calm as he watches Bruce's expression change. 

"Do we still have his case file?" Bruce turned towards the older man, tired eyes scanning up to meet his butler's. 

"I believe so, may I ask why you need it, Master Bruce?" A grey eyebrow rose, Alfred's mouth remaining a thin line on his faintly wrinkled face as he awaited a response.

"I'd just like to see it again, that's all." He lied, he wanted to see the autopsy report he knew wasn't there, he wanted to know who pronounced him dead, who wrote up the report. He needed to know he was gone. Alfred nodded once and turned, walking for the doorway to move into the hall. 

"Very well, I shall look for it." His voice faded as he moved further away from the study. 

Bruce spent the remainder of his evening digging through the thick file of Jerome Valeska. From the murder of his mother to his televised death. From his resurrection to his final meeting with a vat of acid. The report was written the next day, no body was recovered, only the CCTV footage of a twenty-two-year-old Valeska falling backwards into the vibrant green pool. Someone had stopped the recording after then, but knowing the strength of what he was in, and the biological material left, there wasn't any way he survived. 

It was comforting, but at the same time it made the knot in Bruce's stomach grow larger. He was thankful it couldn't be the same man who held a knife to his throat so long ago, but this meant he still didn't know who the Joker truly is, or at least who he was. 

A few days later and he's calling for Batman. 

"Batsy," he says, "Batsy Batsy Batsy, Batman, Bat-Bud, pointy ears." His face is pressed against the foam on the door, grin deformed and eyes half closed, rolling back into his head. Bruce was on his way in already, prepared to question him further on the name he had responded so aggressively towards. 

"Aw, you showed, I'm touched." Leaning onto his knees, Joker stood, wobbling with his lack of balance due to the straightjacket. "You're always late to our date nights."

"You got worked up over a name a few days ago. Jerome. Is that your name?" He remained stoic, staring at those dark green eyes from behind the small plexiglass window in the door. 

" _'Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself.'_ Y'know." The Joker's pale skin of his face was partially visible, Arkham's careless hosing down could never get all that paint off in one go. 

"I asked you a question."

"In which I responded." He let out a low snicker, shifting his weight constantly from foot to foot. Bruce could swear he saw scarring around his eyes.

"Jerome, it's the only one you've responded so strongly towards." Joker had groaned at this. 

"Y'know Bats, you've lost your charm for the evening, may I suggest bringing roses? Since you're so caught up with names at the moment." Eye contact was kept, Joker didn't look away, nor did he really change his demeanor. This was the problem Bruce didn't want to encounter. The Joker's mood is always so volatile, he'll never get the same types of reactions twice, there's no solid evidence because there's no control. 

"Bats?" Bruce found himself snapping back to his senses, Joker now pressing his nose against the glass. "You better be daydreaming of me."

At this, Bruce decided he had gotten all he could, and so he turned and left. Ignoring the scars encircling the Joker's eyes, ignoring the eerie similarity between the laughter in that cell and the echoes of laughter from long ago, ignoring the sense of dread that lasted far too long for him to be comfortable. 

Two weeks passed, three more visits to the Joker, no more results than one angry spew of insults and threats. Bruce continued to search through all the police records of Jerome. Nothing new caught his eye. When the news of his death was initially released, Bruce had already memorized a majority of the information. 

 

A recently emerged Batman had been on his way to Jerome's most recent spree of crime. Lucius Fox's voice came through the earpiece telling Bruce of the man's passing. At first, he couldn't quite believe it, he was almost glad, he didn't have to deal with the memories of kidnapping and mirrors any longer. Though after some thought, he began to feel hollow, like he lost someone close. Well, he did, Jerome had been in and out of Arkham for years, he helped give birth to the Batman. 

The currently 20-year-old Bruce had rushed to the scene, police officers surrounded the building with their blindingly bright lights. As the Bat, Bruce had stayed away, not wanting to draw any more attention to himself than necessary. His current 'costume' was only a black fitted suit with minor armoring, even his mask was only covering his upper face. The setup was only meant for small time criminals and the occasional druggie, nothing as serious as dealing with one of the most renowned criminals in Gotham. 

He left that night, let the police take care of the situation, no matter how much Bruce knew they would botch the search. 

It was later that week when the GCPD gave an official statement. Known criminal Jerome Valeska found dead in his most recent spree, a misstep in the factory he had taken hostage led him into a large vat of hydrochloric acid. That's all that was said on the news, and later Bruce managed to get the file through their database. No body recovered, the acid that took him was a combination of combustibles, no witnesses other than what the CCTV captured, and no sign of survival. He _had_ to be gone, there wasn't any way he could've survived. 

 

Bruce knew this, and yet he couldn't stop thinking of the Joker as his childhood terror, the man who held no remorse for those he blatantly shot down, who loaded a functioning canon two feet from Bruce's own face. As he laid in his bed through the late morning, having hoped for a few spare moments of rest, the thought never left him. 

One and a half weeks pass and the Joker blasted his way out of Arkham once again. The facility never held him for very long, not with so many followers and henchmen, this man had a million ways of getting free, many would've probably gotten him out sooner. Much to Alfred's concern, Bruce was back out on the streets that night, scouring Gotham's dark alleys and back roads for that sickening green hair.


End file.
